Hyakujo (Pai-chang Huai-hai, 724–814)[5.14] one day went out attending his master Baso (Ma-tsu). A flock of wild geese was seen flying and Baso asked
“What are they?”
“They are wild geese, sir.”
“Whither are they flying?”
“They have flown away, sir.”
Baso abruptly taking hold of Hyakujo’s nose gave it a twist. Overcome with pain, Hyakujo cried aloud, “Oh! Oh!”
“You say they have flown away,” Baso said, “but all the same they have been here from the very beginning.”
This made Hyakujo’s back wet with cold perspiration. He had satori.
Is there any connection in any possible way between the washing of the dishes and the blowing out of a candle and the twisting of the nose? We must say with Ummon: If there is none, how could they all come to the realisation of the truth of Zen? If there is, what inner relationship is there? What is this satori? What a new point of viewing things is this? So long as our observation is limited to those conditions which preceded the opening of a disciple’s eye we cannot perhaps fully comprehend where lies the ultimate issue. They are matters of everyday occurrence, and if Zen lies objectively among them, every one of us is a master before we are told of it. This is partly true inasmuch as there is nothing artificially constructed in Zen, but if the nose is to be really twisted or the candle blown out in order to take the scale off the eye, our attention must be directed inwardly to the working of our minds, and it will be there where we are to take hold of the hidden relation existing between the flying geese and the washed dishes and the blown out candle and any other happenings that weave out infinitely variegated patterns of human life.
Under Daiye (Tai-hui, 1089–1163),[5.15] the great Zen teacher of the Sung dynasty, there was a monk named Dōken (Tao-ch‘ien) who had spent many years in the study of Zen, but who had not yet delved into its secrets if there were any. He was discouraged when he was sent on an errand to a distant city. A trip requiring half a year to finish would surely be a hindrance rather than a help to his study. Sogen (Tsung-yüan), one of his fellow-monks, took pity on him and said, “I will accompany you on this trip and do all that I can for you. There is no reason why you cannot go on with your meditation even while travelling.” They started together. One evening Dōken despairingly implored his friend to assist him in the solution of the mystery of life. The friend said, “I am willing to help you in every way, but there are five things in which I cannot be of any help to you. These you must look after yourself.” Dōken expressed the desire to know what they were. “For instance,” said the friend, “when you are hungry or thirsty, my eating of food or drinking does not fill your stomach. You must drink and eat yourself. When you want to respond to the calls of nature, you must take care of them yourself, for I cannot be of any use to you. And then it will be nobody else but yourself that will carry this corpse of yours [i.e., the body] along this highway.” This remark at once opened the mind of the truth-seeking monk, who, so transported with his discovery, did not know how to express his joy. Gen now told him that his work was done and that his further companionship would have no meaning after this.[5.16] So they parted company and Dōken was left alone to continue the trip. After the half-year Dōken came back to his own monastery. Daiye, his teacher, happened to meet him on his way down the mountain, and made the following remark, “This time he knows it all.” What was it, one may remark, that flashed through Dōken’s mind when his friend gave him a most matter-of-fact advice?